


where you stop falling apart and he stops falling

by cassieking13



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, incrediably sorry for this one
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-01
Updated: 2014-04-01
Packaged: 2018-01-17 18:26:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1398022
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cassieking13/pseuds/cassieking13
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It feels like crashing sometimes, how the world stops and you realize all over again that you’re alone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	where you stop falling apart and he stops falling

**Author's Note:**

> This is sad John angst in a wierd POV because I'm in a weird mood and experimenting, which usually leads to all kinds of fuck ups.
> 
> Also, thanks to my beautiful Anna for her brilliant help.

There’s this immense sadness in realizing you’re alone. Rolling over in bed, expecting a warm body to lull you back to sleep and instead finding a cold spot and a pillow that stopped smelling like him months ago. Dragging yourself through a flat full of beakers and papers, little catastrophes that were the mark of your everday and are now sullen reminders of what’s missing.

 

Mrs. Hudson tuts, says it’ll be fine, it’ll get better. Tries to get you to eat,slipping tray after tray of tea onto the table and coming hours later to take it away,nearly untouched. She doesn’t stop, just brings tray after tray and sits them on the counter. Sometimes she’ll sit there and force you to eat, her lips thin when you push the plate away well before it’s clean.

 

Molly hugs you and smiles watery smile like they’ll fix things. She babbles on about how he was, how good he was, how much she misses him. She sends her new boyfriend to watch a match and you nearly snarl when he goes to sit in the sleek black chair across from yours. He doesn’t come back and she stops trying.

 

Ella goes on and on about post-tramatic stress and the onset of stress related eatin disorders, but the rain is much more intersting and her voice is brilliant background noise.

 

Greg drags you to the pub, drowns your sorrows in pint after pint and has you up at six the next morning to run it off. He doesn’t offer condolenses or comforting, just accepts your silence and meets it with one of his own. He takes you to the gym and throws you into the ring, boxing match after match until training begins to take over and you’re beating him every time. It’s good, slipping out of your mind and into the physical. Letting the movement and the pull and shift of muscles take over, the worries, stresses, and heartaches of reality left behind as instict rules and you dodge a right hook that would have taken you out a month ago.

 

It feels like crashing sometimes, how the world stops and you realize all over again that you’re alone. Like everything else has screeched to a stop but you keep going. The concerned looks blur away and you remember how he’d refuse to move even and inch if it didn’t involve sex or a case, how he took his tea, how he’d bend over his microscope for hours if you didn’t pull him away. Then it’s come back, flashes of a black coat billlowing behind a long graceful body as it fell throught the air. The blood pooling from his dark curls, tacking them to the sidewalk. The nightmares plauge you wherever you go. His blood puddles on every sidewalk, his voice rings through the wind like alost song. You want to dream. You want to slip into a never ending dream where he comes back and everything is fine again, where you stop falling apart and he stops falling. That’s why you don’t have any trouble sleeping. Despite the nightmares, you sink back into the pillows and let sleep take you again because the biggest nightmare is facing the world he’s not in.

 

*~*

 

It’s not raining, a feat for London in the winter. Soft sunlight is filtering through the curtains, falling in strands and spots across the bedspread. You pull yoursel fupright and wonder why you don’t just roll over and go back to sleep. It’s sounds so much simpler than movning so you do, flopping down across the other side of the bed and seeking out a nonexistant warm spot.

 

Except it’s not nonexistent.

 

The pillows smell like chemicals and shampoo and the sheets are rumpled and warm.

 

A sob tears up you’re throat befor you can stop it and you trip out of bed, chasing a ghost. And there he is. As tall and lanky as ever, leaning against the counter with his blue dressing gown (which had hung untouched on the back of the door for three years noww, three years!) and scowling a the kettle.

 

You pull him around and split the skin of his perfect cheekbone, bruising the pale skin and staining your fist with his blood. He looks shocked, hurt, his eyes wide and damp but you don’t notice because you’re hands are fisted in his dressing gown and he hasn’t disappearned. Your sigh is broken by a sob punctuated by a choked laugh before you yank him closer and kiss him like you’re dying.

 

He’s whines, low and long and clutches at you shoulders, wrapping long limbs around you and pulling, pulling until you’re flush against each other. Your hands bury themselves into his hair, tugging his head into a better position and chasing the taste of toothpaste until all you can taste is _Sherlock_.

 

You say his name like a prayer, breathed out like it’ll your dying wish. He laughs, low and just as broken as your voice, nodding and tucking himself into you, folding himself to fit into you and against you. Your arms wrap around him, clutching a too thin body to you chest as tension bleeds out of you without your knowing. Softly, whispered and secret, you hear his voie for the first time since what you thought was the last time, for the first time in three years.

 

_“John.”_


End file.
